Thanks and Giving
by Mizu Iruka
Summary: Thanksgiving through the years for the boys. Up to S5, Canon-complicit, slight AU at the end.


"What's Thanksgiving?"

Dean looked up from his math homework to see Sammy's chin propped up on the tabletop, big eyes staring at Dean like he held the answers to the universe.

Which, since Dean was now a solid ten years old, he obviously did.

"What?"

Wordlessly, Sammy pushed some kind of paper collage across the table. Dean looked at the paper turkey made from an outline of Sammy's pudgy little hand and grinned.

"You made a turkey?" he asked with a grin.

"Like the dead ones we see on the side of the road," Sammy said sagely.

Dean laughed and ruffled Sammy's hair. "Yup, just like those. Only without all the blood."

Sammy made a 'yuck' face and turned away. Dean grinned privately. He had just recently learned the trick to distracting Sammy, and had gleefully used it whenever Sammy got too annoying.

"Dean, what's Thanksgiving?"

Then again, sometimes it didn't work.

"It's a stupid holiday everyone celebrates. Don't worry about it."

Dean turned back to his homework—if there was one subject he liked, it was definitely math, number made sense—and heard Sammy rummaging around his bag.

"Don't make a mess, Sammy," he admonished vaguely.

"No mess," his little brother mumbled. "Looking."

"Looking for what?" Dean bit his lip as he focused on the fractions, there was a trick to this that his teacher had said, what was it . . .

"Here!"

"Sammy!" Dean barked, annoyed as his attention was broken. "What are you doing?"

"We made lists of what we're thankful for!" Sammy's smile was huge. "That's what Than'giving's about."

"Thanksgiving," Dean corrected absently, picking the piece of bright orange paper out of Sammy's hand. Big crayon letters, proclaiming that Sammy was thankful for . . .

Dean smiled a little. "You spelled my name wrong."

Sammy looked horrified. "No!" He snatched the paper away from Dean, frowning at the paper and mouthing 'D' 'E' 'A' 'N.'

"I'm kidding, doofus, you spelled it right. How 'bout we watch some cartoons, huh?"

Sammy grinned at him toothily.

* * *

Sam shifted around nervously, and peeked into the bedroom one more time. "Dean, you sure? I mean, it's not fair that you have to stay."

Dean waved a magnanimous hand as he perused his magazine. "Dude, don't turn down free food. And the girl's a dweeb, but I know you think she's cute. Have fun. Don't get her pregnant."

"Dean!" Sam squawked.

"Go on, Sammy, don't be late."

Sam bit his lip and left quickly and quietly. They were squatting in a house in the same neighborhood as Stephanie's, so it was a short but cold walk over to her house.

"Welcome, Sam."

Sam offered a sickly smile and awkwardly toed off his shoes. "I didn't know if I should bring anything . . ." he began, but Stephanie's mom waved him off.

"Sweetie, don't worry about it. You're just in time, we're about to start eating."

The dinner was not as bad as Sam had feared. He was getting good at avoiding the questions about his family, and pretty soon the conversation turned to safer topics, like what Sam wanted to do after school—become a doctor—and what his favorite subject was—english—and did he have any pets—no, just an older brother, if that counted.

Sam eyed the apple pie at the end of the table and realized suddenly that with how many other desserts there were, chances were that there would be left over.

Stephanie poked him with her foot and Sam jumped, blushing furiously.

"The game's gonna be on soon," her father said. "Sam, are you going to stay?"

"I, uh, my brother's home by himself. I should go back," Sam explained. Stephanie looked vaguely put out, and Sam shot her an apologetic look.

"Oh, the poor thing! You should've brought him along."

Sam shifted uncomfortably. "I didn't want to impose."

"Nonsense. Would you like to take some leftovers to him?"

Relieved that he wouldn't have to ask, Sam nodded vigorously.

Burdened with a paper plate filled with turkey and other goodies, plus an extra plate of pie, Sam walked quickly back to their house, sneaking in the back and ducking inside.

"Dean?" he called out softly. "You here?"

The house was silent, though, and Sam sighed, setting the plates down on their makeshift kitchen table made of crates. They were only using the central room for now, a couple broken-down mattresses on the edges of the room.

"Guess I could've stayed a little longer," Sam murmured to himself. Still, it had been worth it. His stomach felt comfortably full, and Sam could close his eyes and pretend that they could've had a Thanksgiving dinner like that—Dad carving the turkey, mom making Dean wash his hands . . .

Sam woke up with a start at a heavy blanket settling over him. "Muh?" he asked articulately.

"Hey, kiddo. Go back to sleep."

Sam blinked heavily. "Pie," he said.

"Yeah, I saw. Thanks, bro." Dean smiled, and Sam remembered picturing Dean and their family at a real table and decided that this would do.

"Happy Thanksgiving," he murmured, and dropped back into sleep before he heard Dean say anything in response.

* * *

"Keep quiet," their dad hissed.

Dean nodded and cast a quick glance at Sam, who rolled his eyes but dropped in silently behind Dean as well.

The pack of creatures—Dad had called 'em bugbears—were essentially just bears. Bears with a taste for children, that was.

"Stay close, Sammy," Dean hissed.

"I heard you the first twenty times," Sam muttered.

Dean hefted his rifle and kept his eyes on his dad's back.

In the twilight, the forest seemed far too peaceful.

And it was . . . until the bugbear crashed through the brush behind them, straight at Sammy.

Dean reacted swiftly, the one thing that he wouldn't have to feel guilty for after it was all over, and shot at the bulk of the creature.

His shot didn't do anything; Dad's caught it in the head.

"Sam!" Dean sprang forward, dragging Sam out from under the bugbear. Sam's wide-eyed, white face stared at Dean like it hadn't for the last four years, like Dean could make everything better.

"I need you to focus. Where are you hurt?" Dad said sternly.

"Sammy, what's hurt?" Dean urged, holding Sam's chin. "Look at me."

"Oh. Leg. Leg hurts." Sam's eyes were huge, pupils swallowing up a washed out green of his irises.

"You're gonna be okay, Sammy."

One of the best things about being nineteen was being almost full grown in height while Sam was still small. It was easy enough to—after Dad had wrapped Sam's leg tightly—gather Sam up and leave the guns to their dad. Sam's arms automatically wrapped tight around his neck, and Dean breathed through Sam's hair.

"Dean," Sam mumbled into his ear. "It's Thanksgiving today."

"Yeah?" Dean focused on not tripping.

Sam gasped in Dean's ear and then his head thumped down onto Dean's shoulder as he passed out.

It was Thanksgiving, and Dean would only be thankful once he was sure Sammy wouldn't die.

* * *

Sam deliberately kept his arms crossed as he slouched against his pillows.

"What's put you in a such a funk, Sammy-boy?"

"It's Sam," he muttered.

"Dude, it's Thanksgiving. Wanna watch some football?"

Sam scowled. "No."

He heard the door open and heavy footsteps stumbling towards the couch.

"Our father returns," he proclaimed sullenly. Dean winced and went to the living room of their small apartment. Probably to make sure John didn't pass out on the floor like last time.

"I'm gonna grab us some food, Sam, any requests?"

"Nothing's going to be open," Sam called back sharply. "Just eat the leftover hot dogs in the fridge."

The door slammed anyway, and Sam sat stewing in silence, thinking about the applications he had sent out already. An escape, that's what he wanted. Then he'd have something to be thankful for.

He only noticed he had fallen asleep when he woke up to being shoved over by Dean.

"Wha—?" he mumbled.

"Wake up. I've got fried chicken."

Sam groaned and pawed at Dean's shoulder. "Leave m'be, I'm sleeping."

"Nope. Food." A drumstick was waved in front of his nose. "And movie. C'mon, emo-boy."

"Stop calling me that," Sam groused.

"Yeah, yeah." Dean waited until Sam grabbed the chicken and took a bite.

"Not bad," Sam finally allowed.

"Yeah." Dean seemed to be in an odd mood, and Sam shot him a look.

"What is it?"

"Look, I get that this is a far sight from ideal. I just want you to know that I'm here for you, okay?"

Sam tensed. "What do you mean?"

"Forget it." Dean slung an arm around his shoulder, and Sam stared blankly at his brother.

"Christo," he tried.

"Dude, relax."

"Since when is you hugging me normal?" Sam accused.

"This isn't hugging. This is manly bonding time."

Sam blinked.

"Bitch, watch the movie, already."

Slowly, Sam allowed himself to sink into the bed and his brother's hold, somehow feeling like he was five years old again, snuggling with Dean.

It was a sudden, surprising pang that Sam felt. He was going to miss Dean.

* * *

"You should call him, Sam."

Sam stiffened. "What're you talking about?"

"It's Thanksgiving," Jess said softly. "Family's important. That's why you said you wouldn't come to my house—you didn't want to intrude. Well, if you're going to use that excuse, then at least call your family over the holiday, okay?"

Sam sighed, inadvertently glancing at his phone. The last time Dean had called, his brother had been drunk, and both of them had said some awful things.

"I'll think about it," he finally said.

"Okay, baby. I'll see you on Monday." Jess kissed his cheek and Sam summoned up a smile for her as she left.

He didn't call Dean.

* * *

Dean firmly ignored it when Sam woke up in the seat next to him gasping. It was becoming far too commonplace, in his humble opinion.

Sam groaned, rubbing his eyes. "Where are we?"

"An hour outside of New York City."

Sam frowned. "New York? I thought we were gonna head West, look for a job?"

"Meh. Job can wait."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "What are you playing at?"

Dean coughed and kept his eyes pointedly fixed out the front windshield. "So I'm thinking that New York might be fun this time of year."

Sam sounded completely mystified. "You hate cities."

"Yeah, well, it's been a while, maybe I've changed my mind," Dean said shortly. That kept Sam quiet for the amount of time it took Dean to get them into the city and to the cheapest motel possible, at such late notice.

"You want me to go get food for lunch?"

"Nah, let's go out. No reason to stay in this hole." Dean clapped Sam on the shoulder and strode out of the room.

"Dean, where are you going? Don't we need the car?"

"Nah, no parking." Dean had mapped it all out beforehand, the key was making sure Sam didn't suspect a thing.

Of course, the crowds didn't exactly help.

"Dean, where on earth are we going?"

"Shut up and just follow, man."

"Is there something going on today?" Sam was at least taller than the people milling around, and Dean was thankful for that. At least he wouldn't lose the idiot.

"I think there's a parade today," Dean said vaguely.

The steadily definable presence of Sam (no, Dean hadn't missed that at all), behind him stopped, and Dean turned to find Sam a few paces back, staring at Dean like he was a ghost.

"What?"

"New York. Macy's Day Parade?" Sam said faintly.

Dean walked back to him. "And your point?"

"Are you a shapeshifter?" Sam asked bluntly.

"No." Dean wasn't about to offer any other information. Like how desperate he was to get the despairing look off Sam's face. Like how he was afraid that Sam would kill himself on their hunt for the demon. Like how much he had missed his little brother.

Sam searched Dean's face, and then—thank goodness—his mouth began to turn upwards.

"Yeah?"

Dean had no idea what he was asking, but nodded casually anyway.

"Oh." Sam's eyes were always eloquent, and told Dean Sam knew what he was doing, the whole distraction, and was okay with it.

Dean shifted uneasily as the crowd flowed around them. "So, you wanna see it?"

There it was. The whole reason he had come to this dumb city with its parade. A full smile, dimples and all.

Dean got elbowed by an old lady, had his toes tread on by a bunch of kids, and didn't get to sit down the entire time.

It was worth it.

* * *

Things between them were tentative at best, and Sam rubbed his fingers together nervously.

"You want me to go get food?"

Dean's eyes pinned him. "You gonna rabbit?"

Subdued, Sam shook his head. "Promise," he tried.

"Don't make promises you can't keep."

Sam thought about what their Dad had made Dean promise, and swallowed hard. "It's just . . . it's Thanksgiving. Thought I'd keep up traditions and grab us some extra crispy."

Dean's eyes were hard, but he nodded shortly.

Sam slipped out the door and took a halfway pained breath. Ever since the town with the demon virus, neither of them had been on their game.

Time to change that.

An hour later, Sam shoved his way into the motel room, swearing under his breath as he balanced the bags.

"Took you long enough."

Sam—not for the first time—hated himself for taking off like he had. "Had to fight an old lady."

Dean raised an eyebrow.

Almost shyly, Sam held out his bag. "Got you pie."

Something eased in Dean's face. "Yeah? What type?"

Sam allowed his own mouth to tilt up. "Cherry, what do you take me for?"

"Okay. You're off the hook."

"Happy Thanksgiving," Sam offered hesitantly.

Dean grunted in acknowledgement and gestured for the pie. Sam still had his destiny, and possibly a demon gunning for him and other psychics, but for tonight, he could let that go.

* * *

"You mix these potatoes, Sammy, or I'm gonna beat your—"

"Dean," Bobby warned. Sam, who was poring over some more of Bobby's library. "Let him be."

"Last Thanksgiving alive, and he wants to waste it," Dean muttered under his breath.

Sam, of course, heard that despite ignoring Dean's past comments, and pinned Dean with a glare. "I'm trying to save you. No stupid meal is going to get in the way of that."

"Yeah." Dean avoided thinking about Hell—he was getting good at doing that—and focused on watching his brother, taking in the dark circles under his eyes, the thin, stretched look that was so common after Jess.

"Dean," Bobby said gently. "Come and help me make dinner."

Dean hesitated at the door and murmured, "I'm not dead, yet."

He turned away and didn't see Sam's tears.

* * *

Thanksgiving slipped between the cracks for the next couple years. Somehow the apocalypse got in the way.

And after . . . Dean was left lost.

"Sweetie, could you carve the turkey?"

Dean looked blankly at the knife Lisa offered him.

"I don't . . ." he fumbled. "I've never done that before."

Lisa smiled encouragingly. "Just cut it up however you like. Ben and I don't mind."

Dean nodded dumbly, taking hold of the kitchen knife and setting to work.

By the time he was done, Lisa had the table set and Dean felt a lump in his throat. Sam would've . . . Dean could remember Sam's version of Thanksgiving in heaven, and had given him a hard time about it. He had never asked Sam if he had wanted that with him and Dad, though.

To his horror, Dean felt a stinging behind his eyes and quickly turned slightly from Lisa's table to focus himself. Sam was dead. Dean repeated it to himself like the mantra it had become. Every day, just so he didn't wake up from a nightmare and think Sam would be in the other bed and the Impala would be sitting outside their motel room, just to be heartbroken again.

The worst of it was that deep down, Dean had told himself that Sam jumping into the pit with Lucifer wouldn't hurt that much. They had already drifted so far apart, with Ruby and the apocalypse.

Dean had been wrong, and now he couldn't even have Thanksgiving dinner with Lisa without falling apart.

Dean should be thankful for his life, for the end of the apocalypse, for Lisa and Ben.

But funny enough, he couldn't do it.

* * *

"He prays for you."

Sam wrapped his arms around himself, not allowing himself to look at Castiel.

"I'm broken. What would he want from me?" he murmured. Lisa's house was lit up so that Sam could see Dean through one of the windows.

"Sam." He finally looked over at Cas to find the angel looking—as usual—confused. "He's your brother."

"It's why I have to let him go," Sam said softly. "He deserves better."

"He will not ever be happy, knowing you are in Hell."

Sam smirked without humor. "Won't he?"

"Sam." Cas took a hold of Sam's shoulder, and Sam wrenched away with involuntary panic—_held down, blood red, no control . . . _

"Sam." Castiel's eyes softened. "Go to your brother."

Sam bit his lip, looking back at Lisa's house.

"Go, my friend."

Sam turned to Cas, but he was already gone.

It wasn't harder than jumping into the cage with Lucifer, but it was close, as Sam made his way up to the front door.

Dean opened after the first knock and Sam sucked in a breath at the sight of his brother.

"Hi," he stammered.

There were things they were supposed to do after being separated. A cut with a silver knife. Holy water.

Dean ignored those and wrapped Sam in a rib-cracking hug.

Sam waited for the panic that had plagued him ever since he had come out of the cage before feeling himself relax.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean murmured in his ear. "Took you long enough. You nearly missed Thanksgiving dinner."

Sam choked back tears and smiled into Dean's neck. "Yeah. Missed you too."

* * *

**A/N:** Happy Thanksgiving, everybody! Spent this past weekend stealing moments to write this-funny enough, vacation doesn't mean more time for fic writing, actually it means less b/c free time becomes family time. So sorry for not uploading a lot. I hope you are (if in the states) celebrating Thanksgiving with family and friends and have a lot to be thankful for-I know I do!

Much love to you all

-J


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